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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29852367">sandstorm</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artikka/pseuds/Artikka'>Artikka</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anakin Skywalker Doesn't Turn to the Dark Side, Anakin Skywalker Needs a Hug, Anakin Skywalker is Not a Jedi, Cooking, Gen, Planet Tatooine (Star Wars), Shmi Skywalker Lives, all in a manner of speaking of course</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 23:41:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>796</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29852367</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artikka/pseuds/Artikka</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em> "Ani," Shmi says with a radiant smile, "oh, it's so good to see you." </em>
</p><p> </p><p>  <em> He blinks. Glances over their little hut and turns back to the utensils in his hands. "What—" he swallows dryly— "what do you mean? We see each other every day, Mom." </em></p><p>  <em> "Oh," says his mother. "Right. Of course." </em></p><p>* * * * *</p><p>Alone at home, Anakin finds himself cooking a meal for two. But something feels. . . off.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anakin Skywalker &amp; Shmi Skywalker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>131</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>New SW Canon Server Works</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>sandstorm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He finds himself making dinner alone. </p><p> </p><p>The little hut may be sparse in luxuries, but let it never be said that a Tatooine-born can't make a meal out of what they have available. </p><p> </p><p>There are some herbs in the cupboard, right where he expected them to be. They have a rich, earthy air; it gives him a strange sense of nostalgia that he can't seem to explain. He rummages around some more and finds a bundle of clay utensils, and a sizable collection of dried fruits and other foodstuffs thrown in the mix; there's some pika, spiked mushrooms, and a few sparse grains. He finds some dried bantha meat in the back as well.</p><p> </p><p>He can make terrine, he decides. And ahrisa. He doesn't have quite the materials for a stew or for bread, so the in-betweens will have to do.</p><p> </p><p>Setting the ingredients aside, Anakin ignites the stove and begins to work. </p><p> </p><p>He's making the meal for two, he realizes, once he's tossed the mushrooms in the pot for the terrine and mixed the slices of pika into the ahrisa's dough. Why is he—</p><p> </p><p>Of course. His mother. He's making a meal for him and his <em> mother</em>, why did he forget—</p><p> </p><p>His mother. . . </p><p> </p><p>(Why is she—where is she—)</p><p> </p><p>At the market, of course. There's a sandstorm coming soon, they can feel it in their bones. She had left this morning, with a wave and a smile, because they'll need supplies to make it through the next few days. "I may be able to find more pika for you, if Jira is amenable," she'd said with a teasing lilt, and he'd grinned and given her some black melon for the journey, warning her to watch out for the shopkeepers who might—</p><p> </p><p>Who might—</p><p> </p><p>(Aren't they owned by—)</p><p> </p><p><em> No</em>. </p><p> </p><p>No, of course not. They're free, him and his mother. There have been some close misses over the years, but that's life in Mos Espa for you, isn't it. Filled to the brim with scum and sla—sla—</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>They're fine. </p><p> </p><p>They're <em> fine. </em></p><p> </p><p>They've made a comfortable little life here, just the two of them and whichever poor souls might wander their way for a spare week or so. They keep to themselves, for the most part, but they have—they have their friends. They have Jira, and Kitster, and Wald, and Beru and her paramour. </p><p> </p><p>A twisted, bitter scent floats across the room and he scrambles to remove the ahrisa from the oven, grabbing for a rag on the table and removing the pan before any more damage can be done. It doesn't look <em> that </em> bad—maybe a little crispy around the edges, but still. It's edible, which is more than he can say for most of Tatooine's fare at times.</p><p> </p><p>He blinks at the rag. Why'd he—couldn't he have just—</p><p> </p><p>The door creaks, and his gaze snaps up.</p><p> </p><p>"Ani," says the gentle, familiar voice of Shmi Skywalker, both comforting and dizzying to hear all at once, "I'm home."</p><p> </p><p>The door opens and she enters fully, arm full of meats and fruits from the markets. Her face is in view and—he can't believe it. She's here. She's <em> here </em> and she's alive—</p><p> </p><p>What—of course she is—why is he—</p><p> </p><p>Why is he surprised? There's no reason to be surprised. He sees her every day. </p><p> </p><p>"Mom," he says blankly, emotions warring inside of him, "I made dinner."</p><p> </p><p>"Ani," Shmi says with a radiant smile, "oh, it's so <em> good </em> to see you."</p><p> </p><p>He blinks. Glances over their little hut and turns back to the utensils in his hands. "What—" he swallows dryly— "what do you mean? We see each other every day, Mom."</p><p> </p><p>"Oh," says his mother. "Right. Of course."</p><p> </p><p>"Sit," he says, pulling out plates and setting the ahrisa down on the table. She sets her wares down on the countertop, moving for the pantry with the bantha steak and—</p><p> </p><p>"That fruit." He says, narrowing his eyes, "That's not—that's Naboo. That's a <em> pear</em>, how in the galaxy would you find that in <em> Mos Espa</em>—"</p><p> </p><p>But he blinks and—</p><p> </p><p>Oh. It's not a pear at all. It's black melon, just like he gave his mother this morning. "I'm sorry," he says, turning back to the plates, "I don't know what came over me."</p><p> </p><p>Shmi moves forward and presses a kiss to his forward, and he practically <em> melts </em> into her arms. This feels—this feels good. He's <em> missed </em>this—</p><p> </p><p>But no. That, again, doesn't make any sense. How can he miss what he's never lost? Lost—did he—</p><p> </p><p>"It's the sandstorm," Shmi states firmly, "The early winds mess with your head, you know."</p><p> </p><p>Yes, he thinks. That makes sense. </p><p> </p><p>It's the sandstorm.</p><p> </p><p>Just the sandstorm.</p><p> </p><p>Outside their little hut, across Mos Espa, the winds begin to howl.</p>
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